


Make and Mend

by never_shuts_up



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, Injury Recovery, Knitting, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other, Reader-Insert, Tooth melting fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 05:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/never_shuts_up/pseuds/never_shuts_up
Summary: Stuck at home and dealing with the frustrating process of recovery, Seth Rollins needs something to keep him busy. The reader has a creative idea.





	Make and Mend

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first reader-insert, and I will own up that it's pure self indulgent, sappy, tooth-melting fluff. Set in the first weeks after Seth's knee surgery in 2015.
> 
> It started as a silly drabble originating from a discussion about the sheer cuteness that would be wrestlers knitting tiny sweaters for tiny dogs. Then I broke my foot. After bingeing on WWE 24 and all the injury recovery fluff I could find for about 2 days straight, this was the result.
> 
> Also, I make zero apologies about referencing movies from the 80s.

You didn't think the phrase “stuck at home with Seth” would have ever entered into your vocabulary. And you didn't want the phrasing in your head to sound so negative, and even felt a little guilty for it. Yet, here you were.

Time together had been something you craved, counted the days to, and cleared your whole schedule for.  The prospect of spending entire weeks together seemed so strange, and you weren't sure you were prepared for it - but then again, a lot of things had happened that you also weren't prepared for.

You weren't prepared for the person who flew back to you from Birmingham as soon as he was cleared to do so. You had never seen anyone - especially not him - look so tired. You weren't prepared for him to be so moody and distant, even when the suggested painkiller dosage dropped off to minimal, to as-needed. You weren't prepared for the obnoxious game of Pillow Tetris it took to fall asleep and stay asleep comfortably together, with his knee supported but enough space that you could still hold each other.  You weren't prepared for his frustration and anger at things as small as a shower curtain that got in his way, and even though he would come to his senses quickly, it still hurt you to see him that way.

Obviously, you were happy to have him around - and all you wanted was to hold onto him as tightly as you could, and try to bring back the old confidence, the sureness and ease with which he had talked about the future, about being the future. And you made up your mind to make sure he didn't have to feel so powerless, to finding a new - if temporary - normal and making home feel like, well,  _ home _ .

You didn't mind spending so much time retrieving pill bottles, ice packs, and food, helping him get around the house, and just curling up next to him on the couch, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and putting Kevin in his lap when you felt he must need some company. You tried to keep him distracted - to keep him from focusing on everything he was missing, to remind him of all the good things in the here and now as subtly as you could when he started to gaze off at something impossibly far away, because even though seven to nine months was a finite and conceivable amount of time, to him it probably felt like the next Ice Age.

And after a few days of figuring out ways to get around the house on crutches and settling into a sort of temporary routine, it seemed the fog was beginning to clear. However, new distractions were limited, the laundry was piling up, and you were both starting to get a little stir-crazy. And to be honest, you could only listen to so much Madden in the background while puttering around the house and doing work on your laptop. It didn't take you long to learn that “sweetie, I can't reach the controller” meant he had chucked it across the room in frustration, and it was happening more and more often. Seth starting to act like himself again was, clearly, both a blessing and a curse - but you would take that over an empty house any day.

After yet another thrown-controller incident, you’d had enough. Instead of handing the controller back, you parked yourself in front of the couch and regarded the beautiful mess in front of you. How did he still manage to look so gorgeous disheveled and annoyed, in a faded Bears t-shirt and gym shorts? At least there was something resembling a smile on his face, even if it was a slightly guilty half-smirk, like a puppy that knows it's made a mess but means to get out of trouble by sheer cuteness alone.

“If you break that controller, there's no way in hell I’m leaving this house to get another one.” You gestured toward the window, which was currently being pelted sideways with wave after wave of freezing rain.

“Well, then it's a good thing Amazon exists, right? Right?” He clearly expected you to laugh, and seemed a little let down that you didn’t. “Come on, I didn't mean anything by it. Just frustrated, is all.”

“Babe, I know. You have every right to be frustrated - I think I would be too. So, don't take this the wrong way, but… I think you need something else to do with your hands.”

“Oh, really? I mean, you’re probably right, but I think I have something to do with my hands right here.” He reached over and tugged playfully at the belt loop of your jeans, pulling you down to the couch beside him.

“You know what I mean.” You chuckled softly at the innuendo, running a hand down his muscular chest from neck to navel. “I have some stuff to do, and I'm going to have to go back to work soon, so I'll try and figure out something else to keep you busy. Ok?”

He shrugged. “Sure, but this works for now.”

With one hand still on your waist and the other behind your back, he drew you the rest of the way in for a kiss.  As you pulled away slowly, you caught a glimpse of the hand knitted scarf hanging on the hook by the door, and all the bits and pieces of an idea began to fall into place.  _ Of course _ . He loved that scarf, a pretty simple fisherman cabled number you'd knitted out of dark gray merino wool the winter before. And you had arguably enjoyed knitting it as much as he enjoyed wearing it: it had helped keep your hands busy on airplanes, waiting around before shows, evenings at home when you didn’t want to turn on the TV, and more importantly, the repetitive motion had helped keep you calm when things got stressful. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the project you had been looking for.

\-----

Seth frowned as you rummaged through the giant tote bag and pulled out a set of size 9 needles and a half-used skein of bright orange yarn. It was perfect starter yarn: not too thin, not too splitty, and it had been in your stash for years, so this would be the perfect chance to get rid of it. 

“So you really think I’m that bored, huh?”

“Babe, I know you're that bored. You're not exactly subtle about it. Admit it, even Madden gets old. You’ve chucked that controller across the room so many times I need both hands to count them. Plus, I can tell you're frustrated because you can't keep your hands still.”

“That's not true.” His right hand fidgeted with the corner of the blanket draped over the couch next to him. Probably realizing the irony, he stopped. “And even if it were, I’m total garbage at this stuff. They couldn't even get me to do arts and crafts at camp!”

You could barely suppress a laugh, but managed to turn it into a smirk. “Really?”

“Yeah, really! I told them I wasn't doing any Farts and Craps, and threw the stupid pot holder loom in the lake.” 

You gave in and let yourself laugh at this one. Yarn and needles in hand, you slid onto the couch next to him. “Why does it not surprise me that you were That Kid?” He shrugged, smiling that lopsided half-smile that had been so rare lately - and still completely disarmed you every time. “Anyway, that was a long time ago, and you might even like it now,” you continued. “I mean, I've found it helps me relax, and it's a good way to kill time while I'm waiting around. And if you try it and hate it, you can stop.”

“I guess I have plenty of time. But I can't let any of the guys find out about this, ok? Because this is how they take away your Man Card.” He chuckled at his own cliche, ruffling your hair with one hand.

You rolled your eyes. “Babe, I think your Man Card is as safe as it gets. Besides, most hand knitting was done by men until the 16th century, when knitting machines were invented.”

Seth looked slightly mystified. “How do you even know this stuff?”

“The internet isn't just for cheat codes and YouTube.”

“You’re right, it's also for porn.” You couldn’t avoid cracking a smile at the obvious punchline. There was his rakish half-grin again, and you could forgive any number of bad jokes just to see it.

\-----

“So you put the loop where, again?”

You sighed. “On the right needle, with one tail over your thumb, and the other over your forefinger.”

“How do I know which needle is the right one?”

“It’s in your right hand, silly.”

After a few failed attempts at casting on, Seth was looking visibly frustrated, but still trying to play it off. Granted, not all of the false starts were his fault; he had gotten a pretty reasonable few loops on the last attempt, when Kevin jumped up into his lap, tangling himself in the yarn and yanking the stitches off the needle. Consequently, this time Seth seemed hell bent on making sure the stitches wouldn't go anywhere, holding the needle and both tails of the yarn in a white-knuckled death grip.

“Not so tight! You'll never be able to knit into those loops if you pull that tightly.”

“Maybe I'll never be able to knit into them anyway!” He tossed the needles onto the coffee table, where they landed with a clatter, and put both hands to his forehead in resigned frustration. “This is just getting ridiculous. I thought you said knitting helped you calm down!”

“It does, babe, it does. But I knitted my first project once too, and you would not believe how ugly it was. It was this itchy baby blue yarn I bought for a dollar because I didn't know how bad it was, I dropped stitches everywhere, and the whole scarf turned out lumpy. But the one after that? It was better. It's all repetition, and after a while your hands just… remember.”

“Well, clearly my hands don't remember shit. I can't even hold onto this one little thing. And what about everything else my body is supposed to remember? If I can’t trust that, what's the point?”

The tears of anger and frustration welling up in his eyes shot a pang of guilt into your chest. Of course he wasn't just frustrated at the knitting, you knew him too well. This was the accumulation of everything that had worried and frustrated him since the injury - the yarn and needles just happened to be in the way. Trying to find the right words, you looked down at your own hands, then over at his, twisted into angry knots at his temples, trying vainly to ground the agitation between them.

You reached a hand out to stroke his creased forehead, smoothing back an errant curl until your fingers brushed over his, and let them linger there for a moment, before leaning in and planting a long, deep kiss on his lips. You stayed there for full minutes on end, feeling him unfreeze and respond, his shoulders relaxing by inches under your touch, his hands no longer fidgeting but finding their place clinging to your upper back and entwined in your hair, as he held you like a life preserver in rough waters.

“You can remember this, right?” He nodded.

“Right now, the rest doesn't have to matter. You have healing to do, and I'm going to be right here. And I think you can remember more than you know.” He nodded again, the corners of his mouth teasing their way up slightly, his eyes liquid with love and gratitude. Of all the expressions he was capable of, this one cut straight to the center of your heart, and you never wanted to look away. For a long moment, you stayed there, before trying to speak again.

“Let's try again. I have an idea. Here, move your good leg over.”

Redistributing the couch cushions and moving his left leg further to the side, being careful not to bump or jostle the ottoman where he had propped up his knee, you shifted yourself over to sit in his lap, your legs between his, and took the needle and yarn in your own hand. He leaned into the contact, chest against your back, head resting lightly on your shoulder, not sure what you had in mind but clearly not arguing with it either. When you picked up his right hand and placed it on top of your own, a smile of recognition spread across his face, and he began to line his fingers up with yours, first on the right hand, then the left.

With his arms wrapped around you, it was more than a little difficult to stay focused. Your whole body just wanted to sink into his warmth and stay there. The soft yarn between your fingertips, the gentle swell and retreat of his breathing against your back, his strong arms draped over yours, his fingers responsive to every movement of your own - you suddenly felt surrounded by warmth and safety, and although you had made up your mind to soothe and reassure him, being in this position had turned that plan right around.

You took a deep breath, and tied a new loop into the yarn to begin casting on.

It was a slower process than usual, with his hands on yours, but you didn't mind in the least. If anything, it made you savor every small motion, every turn and twist of the soft yarn through your fingertips, every subtle movement of the needle. After casting on the first few stitches, it became deeply meditative, both of you intently focused on the wood and fiber, and tenderly, responsively in tune with each other's every movement.  _ Right needle through the loop, catch the yarn, draw it through, slide off the left, and again, and again. _ A glance over showed you that the hardness of concentration in Seth’s face had been replaced with the warm, responsive softness you usually only saw when he curled up next to you in bed. Instead of frustrated, he looked absolutely enthralled, and it sent sweet rolling waves through your heart.

After a working a few rows like this, unaware of the clock or the rain turning into sleet or anything but each other and the click of wood on wood, the doorbell rang. Of course, you thought, it was getting on to late afternoon by now and tonight’s meal kit delivery hadn't shown up yet, so this must be dinner. You sighed, and began to extract yourself from Seth’s arms with more than a twinge of regret. “I guess I'd better go get that, if we’re ever gonna eat.”

“Can't it wait?” He gave you a gentle squeeze and leaned his head against your shoulder with a soft possessiveness that almost made you reconsider.

“You say that, but in an hour you're probably going to be hungry.”

“Maybe not food hungry. But fair enough.” He put on an exaggerated look of resignation, but let you go, leaving a small kiss on the side of your neck and taking the yarn and needles from your hand.

“Are you going to keep working on that while I get dinner ready?”

“I'll give it a try. See how it goes.”

When you headed back through to the kitchen, box of ingredients in hand, he was already deeply absorbed in the next row of stitches, a small, satisfied smile on his face.

\-----

With all the component parts of dinner assembled (today’s box was some chicken and vegetable thing with couscous that you weren't entirely sure how to pronounce, but smelled pretty good), you headed back out to the living room to find Seth in exactly the same position you’d left him: calmly focused on the growing orange scarf-thing in his hands.

“Babe? Dinner’s ready. Do you want me to bring it here, or do you want to try and sit at the table?”

“I'll come to the table,” he replied, finishing up a stitch. “You already did so much, I don't want to make you clean - whatever it is that smells so good - out of the couch.”

“Table it is, then.” You reached for his crutches, which you had left leaning up against the arm of the couch, and gestured at the knitting in his hand. “Can I see how this is going?”

“Sure.” He handed it over, with that satisfied grin that you hadn't seen in weeks, not since the last time he'd been home - not since before. “I think it's looking okay. Maybe I'm not so bad at this stuff after all.”

You examined the few inches of fuzzy orange stockinette, turning it over in your hands. The gauge wasn't consistent so the rows wobbled a little, and there were a few lumps where he had dropped stitches and tried to pick them back up, but overall, it was a good first try. And it was something soft and warm and real in your hands, something he made, and to you, that made it beautiful. “This looks great. Everything you could do differently is just beginner stuff, and everyone does it when they’re learning.” You put the small bundle down on the coffee table. “What about you? Change your mind about Farts and Craps at all?” With a joking half-smile, you held one crutch out for him and stood to the other side so he could lean on you to get up.

“I guess so. It's not so bad.” He eased his right leg off the ottoman and hauled himself up to lean on your shoulder. "Hey, how hard do you think it would be to knit a sweater for Kevin sometime?”

You had to hold back a giggle, but the mental image of Seth knitting a tiny sweater for Kevin sent a rush of warmth through your chest in a way you’d never expected. “Probably not too hard. The only tricky part is getting the size right, and I bet I could find an easy pattern for that.”

As you held out the second crutch, Seth didn't take it, but slid his arm the rest of the way around your shoulders, turning you to face him. “I got to do a lot of thinking today. About learning, about new starts, about making something totally new that didn't exist before. And about you.”

You didn't know whether to be flattered or merely surprised. “Me?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious. “What about me?”

“Well, mostly how I can't believe you put up with me. I know I've been a mess to deal with, and angry when I shouldn't be, and I'm amazed you’ve seen me like this and still want to stick around.” His smile had turned suddenly bashful, almost embarrassed to admit to the cracks in his own armor, but his eyes were wistful and looked likely to start tearing up again.

You wrapped both arms around him tighter. “Seth, is that really what you think? That I  _ put up _ with you? That it's some kind of big deal for me to stick around?” He didn't nod in response, but the wistful, liquid look in his eyes more than implied it. “You doofus, I don't put up with you - I love you. I mean, you're right that this has been hard. I knew it would be hard. But it would be so much harder if I knew you needed me and I wasn't here with you. And I’ll be here for as long as you need me and more. Now come on, dinner’s getting -” Before you could get the words out, he stopped your lips with a long, deep kiss. You stayed, letting him lean into you as he held you tightly, tracing the back of his neck with sure, gentle fingers as any doubts that this was the man you had fallen so hard for dissolved completely.  _ Sure enough,  _ you thought _ , there are things the body remembers. And there are things worth learning over again. _

Pulling away slowly, he accepted the second crutch from your hand, and you headed toward the kitchen together.

“So, I can teach you a few more stitches later, if you'd like?”

“I think I would like.”  He smiled the devastatingly sultry half-smile you knew so well, his gaze drifting sideways toward you with a look that only ever meant one thing: the best kind of trouble. “Are you going to do that Demi Moore ‘Unchained Melody’ thing again? Because we might have to take it to the bedroom.”

 


End file.
